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There is an axiom in Hollywood that nearly every actor, producer, director, publicity agent, writer, et al, lives by. The truism reads, “There is no such thing as bad publicity.” There is wise advice by a line in the song “All The Gold In California” sung by the Gatlin Brothers. It cautions, “Living on the spotlight can kill a man outright, ‘cause everything that glitters is not gold.”

The Glitterati of Hollywood, Madison Avenue, television shows and other show business venues disregard such out-of-date advice and plunge ahead like a drag racer at Clermont over Labor Day Weekend. Their credo is, no matter what it is if it gets your name and picture in the paper, on TV, causes paparazzi to chase you or gets you into the social media, it is good. Nothing is sacred. Nothing is sacrosanct. Nothing is out of bounds. It seems that females are the most notorious and shameless in this theater.

I say without equivocation that there are at least “eleventy leven” award shows from the famed Alpo Awards that go to the starlet who carries the most little dogs while slinking about; the Oscar; to the Zippitups which honors the person with the most open zippers on her clothing. Let the record indicate that I do not watch any of those shows. If I wanted to bore myself to death I would watch all of them while drooling in my glass of Ensure. The females who cavort down the red carpet try to outshine each other to get the most publicity.

These nubile and not so nubile “Oopsters” in their rush to gain notice choose dresses that are so tight they lose all feeling in their legs and feet or they select a dress that is so short that everyone expects to see London and France. Some don’t even wear France. Others wear dresses with a slit up the side as far as possible, others come down as far as possible from the top, while others come up as far as possible from the bottom. Some day in the near future a brave and stalwart nubile starlet will show “possible” and she will be heralded as a trend setter, a ground breaker who broke through the surly bonds of puritanical propriety and dared to show her “possible” in a display of strength; a brave and strong woman.

And that brings me to wardrobe malfunctions. The term was introduced to the public by a publicist when Janet Jackson performed at a Super Bowl game and during a sensual moment one of her breasts was exposed. “Yowsa,” screamed males all over the world while they swilled their “brewskis” and snarfed their “wings.” I have lived 14.8 lustra and have been married to a proper lady for a long time. We have two daughters and two granddaughters and never has any of them had such a problem. I have interacted with thousands upon thousands of females at work, at church, while shopping, while living normal lives and never has any suffered through a wardrobe malfunction such as a nip slip, side boob, under boob and toxic cleavage that plagues entertainers today. Wink, wink. It just doesn’t happen in real life unless I am oblivious. Come on Susie Starlet admit you planned those events. Women who shop at Kohls, JCPenney, Target, Macy’s, Nordstrom or even Goodwill, purchase quality apparel that prevents those malfunctions.

Publicity seeking “hounds” [Oopsters] pay thousands of dollars for their clothing. They have famous designers make their clothing. They employ stylists and publicists to make them look good. They prep and tape and sew and adjust their clothing. But at a crucial moment the wardrobe splits, shifts, rips or falls off. Those oops and malfunctions are carefully planned to attract the camera in the never ending search for the body part that will, at least for the moment, satisfy the raging thirst of prurient interest that grows like a fungus on the American intelligentsia.

Then there is the plague of see through – nude look – adopted by so many “Oopsters.” However, when a body part is exposed they blame the wardrobe. Hollywood is populated with many “Oopsters,” and the number is growing, who wear a short and sheer dress then try to get out of a car while demurring that they forgot to put on any underwear and as a result they flash France.

I am going to say it. Those “Oopsters,” their designers, publicists, dressers, et al, are morons. Stop blaming the clothing. Stop acting as if the non-entertaining public is composed of mouth breathing, knuckle-dragging, booger eating, slavering, dim witted, clot brained, dense, witless dumbbells who need a glimpse of your body to get through each tedious, mind numbing, meaningless day. It takes one to know one. At least I am not an “Oopster.”